


Beltane

by chewysugar



Series: An Abundance of Equinoxes [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Boys Kissing, Canon Divergence - Post-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Celebrations, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Pre-Epilogue, Public Display of Affection, World Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 03:08:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20846534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: Seamus and Dean have done everything in their power to leave the chaos of the wizarding world behind since the Battle of Hogwarts. With the first anniversary quickly approaching, they're both at a crossroads--with their futures, and their relationship.





	Beltane

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the final part of this series!
> 
> As Jo hasn't, to my knowledge, given any details about Seamus and Dean's futures--and as I have heard rumours that she planned on making them a couple but didn't because it was "distracting from the story" (whatever that means) I don't feel as bad taking some liberties with this fic out of all the rest.

Sunlight hot as a bonfire baked the streets of London. Seamus Finnigan strode down perfectly non-magical streets, carrying a shopping bag filled with perfectly non-magical products, nodding at perfectly non-magical people, and wondering when he would have to leave it all behind. A calendar year of living among them as one of them, and he wasn’t sure he preferred wizardkind over muggles. Certainly, they weren’t all innocent as the newborn lamb; they fought, cursed each other, deceived and begrudged. And as his and Dean’s week in Germany had taught them both, muggles had just as much propensity for cruelty as certain factions in the Wizarding World. But Seamus still couldn’t help but find muggles an innocent lot.

He hadn’t realized, until he and Dean had gone on their year-long odyssey around muggle Europe following the Battle of Hogwarts, just how much he’d taken the muggle side of his heritage for granted. It felt oddly freeing to have to use the Underground to get from one place to another; to use a telephone to call his Mum, and to have to rely on simple over-the-counter pharmaceuticals to pep up his closest friend after a night’s hard drinking.

Seamus turned down a side street, where the buildings were much older than the main thoroughfare where he’d found the pharmacy. He thanked his lucky stars that the remedy had been so close at hand to the summer rental flat he and Dean had been sharing for the last few days. Dean was in dire need of reinvigorating, and had Seamus had to travel too far, he wasn’t so sure his best friend would have survived. 

Though it was only a little after ten in the morning, the heat had climbed to a record high for late April—not that Seamus was apt to complain. They’d come to London after nearly a month in Dublin, and while staying in his motherland had been a nice respite after months abroad, it had been characteristically gloomy and rainy. He and Dean had nearly both drowned during a tour of Glendalough, so any heat was welcome.

Seamus chuckled at the memory as he jogged up the steps to the front door of the flat. Had he and Dean had their wands, and they’d have been able to dry off without much difficulty. As they’d left all things magical with Dean’s mother, they’d had to crawl for the cover of their tent, strip down to their skivvies, and huddle beneath blankets and sleeping bags until feeling returned to their limbs. Dean had fallen asleep shortly thereafter, and Seamus had stayed up, watching him, and wondering just what on earth he was to do.

The only solution had been one his Mum had taught him during all the difficult times in his life: _get on with it_. She’d said as much after the Triwizard Tournament, when he’d raised doubts about her assertions that Harry Potter was not to be trusted: _move on; deal with it_.

Seamus shook his head. He adored his mother, but her habit of radical acceptance had made her something of a doormat. Shame that it had taken him nearly demolishing his friendship with Harry to learn that.

He preferred seizing life by the throat—taking action. It was only in Dean that he found the prospect of setting foot on that long and winding path so daunting as to rely on inactivity to survive.

Seamus unlocked the door and walked up the narrow staircase. Even from outside their little flat, Dean’s snores nearly shook the windows. At least he’d gotten some sleep. He’d drunk himself into a frenzy the previous night—which had bled into morning—and Seamus had worried as to his ever recovering. But it had been like that no matter where they’d gone on their journey: while Seamus enjoyed the access to alcohol and the heat of pubs and nightclubs, Dean seemed unable to live without them. Where Seamus could drink most people under the table, Dean drank as if the table didn’t exist. 

More than once, Seamus had had to carry him back to whatever inn or hotel they were staying at (again, an instance where the use of magic would have come in useful) and put him up for the night. Lucky for him, Dean was a happy and affectionate drunk. Seamus had known people who could only get a drop in before old resentments turned them into machines of rage. 

Seamus didn’t consider himself one among the intuitive, but he knew the root cause of Dean’s need to cut loose—and, just as he knew the reason why he liked nothing more than taking care of Dean and seeing him happy, Seamus refused to broach the subject. At least, not until it was necessary. 

He entered their shared flat, and felt sunlight wash over him like rainwater. The furnishings were Spartan, as most of the places they’d stayed had been. But just having Dean’s snores from down the hallway made the place feel like some kind of home.

In a placid frame of mind, Seamus set about unpacking his shopping. Headache medication, orange juice and a cold compress lined the counter, and he was just thinking about putting on some strong coffee when, out of nowhere, something clattered at the window. Starting, Seamus looked around. A handsome tawny owl was perched on the windowsill, a scroll tethered to one leg.

Even as he crossed the room to open the window, Seamus’s heart sank. They’d avoided most things magical during their travels. Though history had beckoned from the cobble streets of Lisbon and the misty moors of Bulgaria, neither of them had much felt like heeding that call.

“We’ve got seven years of that stuff at our backs,” Dean had said. “Let’s give it a pass for now, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

So to have it now tapping on the glass of this little home that was not their own was disheartening. There wasn’t a chance that it had been a case of mistaken address; Dean and Seamus had been selective in choosing where they stayed, and a muggle man owned this flat.

Knowing that the owl was for either himself or Dean, Seamus opened the window. Heat coursed in as the bird hopped across the sill. It landed on top of the television stand with a self-important hoot, and held its leg out.

“Shush.” Seamus glared at the owl. “You’ll wake him up.” But the bird only turned imperious eyes to Seamus. Shaking his head, Seamus untied the thong from around its leg, and unfurled the scroll of parchment.

His trepidation lifted when he saw the familiar, loopy handwriting:

_Dear Dean,_

_I hope this letter finds you well…or finds you at all, as none of us have the foggiest idea where you or Seamus have been. I, personally, have chosen to picture the two of you somewhere in Tibet, searching for tranquility among the yetis. But I may be wrong.   
_

_Wherever you are, I hope you’re happy. I wrote your mother some time ago, and she told me that you and Seamus had gone off travelling. She’s a very nice woman, but I found her a little bossy.   
_

_Anyway, the anniversary of the Battle is coming up. A few of us are having a little get-together the night of the First, to commemorate the event. Don’t worry—it won’t be anything terribly serious.   
_

_I would like it very much for you and Seamus to come. But if you can’t, and have decided to renounce the wizarding world for a life of quiet among the muggles, I’ll more than understand. _

_Hope to see you soon!_

_Watch out for wrackspurts—they’re in mating season. _

_Love, _

_Luna._

_PS: Please feed the owl as soon as she delivers this._

It didn’t take Seamus long to see why Luna had added the post-script. Already the owl was shrieking up such a storm that Seamus was amazed his ears weren’t bleeding.

“Alright, alright!” He reached for a rolled up bag of half-eaten crisps. Nothing loath, the owl poked her head inside and began nibbling at the remains.

The door at the end of the hall opened with a bang. A moment later, Dean, dressed only in his boxer shorts, staggered into the living room, eyes half-shut against the light and noise. 

“Wazzgoingon?” He mumbled. He peered at the backside of the post owl, sticking out of the crisp bag as she continued to gorge herself.

“Oh god.” With a sigh too defeated for Seamus’s liking, Dean sank onto the nearest kitchen chair, head buried in his hands.

“Here.” Seamus quickly filled a glass with water and handed it to Dean, along with the bottle of headache medication. “Not as good as a pepper-up potion, but any port in a storm, right?” 

“Right.” Dean smiled blearily, accepting the remedy on offer. “Thanks, Shea.” Seamus watched as Dean took the tablets, and sucked them back with several large gulps of water. He found himself staring as Dean’s throat contracted with each gulp.

“Who’s that from?” Dean asked, nodding at the parchment in Seamus’s hand.

“Luna. Here, listen.” And he read the letter in full. By the time he got to the end, Dean was fully awake if not copacetic. He stared thoughtfully at the owl, now preening herself after her meal. Seamus noticed Dean’s forehead crease, and wished he’d shooed the owl away before its indignant hoots had woken Dean up. 

After a moment, Dean sighed, and ran a hand over his face. “I suppose that’s it then, eh? End of the line for us.”

“Only if you want it to be,” said Seamus. “We could always show up for whatever they’ve got planned and then…y’know…” His voice trailed away. He didn’t need the flat stare Dean gave him to know he was being delusional. Their cache of muggle money—part of a trust that Seamus’s father had set up on the occasion of his reaching his eighteenth birthday—was already running low.

Neither of them had discussed what they would do once their adventure ended. Seamus had allowed himself the foolish privilege of thinking they would simply go on and on, visiting city after city, until they were both old and grey. Now that the demise of their journey seemed to be presenting itself, he wanted nothing more than to take Dean to the farthest reaches of the earth—if only it meant keeping him safe and happy.

Dean continued to gaze into the motes of dust spiraling in the air. Seamus knew Dean hadn’t anticipated things to end so abruptly, because he’d been doing his utmost to avoid anything unpleasant all year long.

“We don’t have to,” Seamus repeated. “We could go back to Dublin. Mum and Dad would put you up…”

Dean smiled. “We’d never make it, Shea. Not like we can just make-believe our Hogwarts reports have any merit to muggles…not unless we want to be postmen for the rest of our lives.”

“What’s wrong with postmen? It’s honest work.” If it meant keeping Dean by his side, Seamus would work scrubbing toilets.

Dean looked at him, as if he were a particularly rosy sunset, and Seamus felt his ears go pink.

_Don’t think on it_, he thought. _He’s just your friend_…

“We have to go back, Shea.” Dean looked wistful at the idea. “Suppose it’s fitting it’s on the anniversary of all that rubbish.”

Seamus hesitated. He’d only just roused Dean from a state of inebriation. The last thing he wanted to do was test his luck. But he had to be absolutely certain…

“Can you handle it, do you reckon?”

Dean laughed bitterly, then got unsteadily to his feet. “No idea. Only one way to find out. But we’ll all be of age there, so if I get too overwhelmed, I’ll just reach for the nearest firewhisky.”

Molten lead filled Seamus’s heart. He wanted to tell Dean off—to say that he’d had enough of his getting pissed at every city they’d been to, and that he wouldn’t stand for it any longer. More than anything, he wanted to say that Dean didn’t have to reach for liquor to dull the trauma of the War, because he had the person who’d always been there for him still at his side.

But neither of them could stomach further surprises. So, with a tremendous effort, Seamus said, “Alright…how do you want to get there? Floo?”

“Nah. Let’s enjoy it the muggle way just a bit longer. Find out where it’s all happening and we’ll see if we can make it there like the true half-bloods we are.” He put a hand on Seamus’s shoulder, and smiled as best he could. Seamus felt, and tamped down, the feeling of a supernova going off in his chest. “Thanks for taking care of me, Shea. Not just today or on this trip but…y’know…always.”

Seamus smiled, then moved off to scrawl a hasty reply to Luna. Unwilling to craft the right words—knowing they’d do nothing but lead to disaster—he said, “Someone has to look after you, mate.”

Dean said nothing for a moment. Then, head down, he walked to the bathroom for a much-needed shower.

* * *

Seamus had never been one for overthinking things into oblivion. Where his mother had taught him to accept for the sake of conserving the peace—which explained why she hadn’t told her husband until well into their marriage that she was a witch—his father had trained him to pay attention to his gut, and to let it lead him where it would.

Therefore, when his feelings for Dean had started to crawl from the realm of friendly towards something teeming with spectacular possibility, Seamus had let himself be still while leaving it to instinct to process.

He thought he might have felt something by the time Fifth Year came around. Dean had been a stalwart support when Seamus had felt a complete misplacement among the other boys in the Gryffindor dormitory. He’d been patient, loyal, and understanding, even though Seamus had been a complete and utter prat.

When Dean had gotten together with Ginny Weasley in Sixth Year, Seamus had done everything to respond in kind, and for the most part, he’d succeeded. He’d been encouraging, and when they’d broken up, he’d joined Dean in some truly unfounded scorn. Through it all, he’d kept the flame in his heart lit, but hidden.

And then the dark days of Seventh Year had descended. Dean and Seamus had been torn asunder, and Seamus hadn’t been able to breathe for the excruciating agony of missing Dean. He’d known, then, that it was more than just the absence of someone he was closer to than any other. His soul had felt cleaved in two; his body dismembered. When Dean had returned the night of the Battle, Seamus had pooled every fibre of his being into seeing Dean survive. 

It hadn’t taken long for him to see just how deep the wounds of the War had run; and so they’d decided to flee and forget. Dean seemed to only trust the freedom of perpetual motion—yet another thing that made Seamus ache to the point of unendurable pain.

The feelings had solidified the day they’d taken off from Heathrow Airport. They’d started their adventure in Lisbon, basking under the sun as it crested along the red-shingle rooftops. From there they’d toured Morocco, then Madrid. France had afforded them the longest stay, first along the beaches of Nice where life teemed like a hive of honeybees. Then they’d settled for the quieter climes at a quaint muggle village in Provence.

Although Dean had joked that it smelled like an old lady’s perfume, he’d seemed less restless in that village. He and Seamus had whiled the days away, wandering the country roads, trying every kind of food under the sun, and plotting a life away from Britain. Dean’s heart had been set so firmly on a farm just a few miles down the road that Seamus had felt inclined to write home with a change of plans.

But wanderlust still called. By the end of the summer, they were in Rome, and Seamus had known beyond any powers of doubt that he loved Dean Thomas more than anything.

It had always been there, this feeling, so that when he cottoned onto it at long last, it didn’t frighten or disturb him. Nor had it been the sort of epiphany that moved the earth and shook the stars. Rather, he felt as if he’d come up from a cold basement on a sweltering summer day—the air around him shifting ever so slightly, his skin coming alive in a moment of changing pressures—the kind of sensation where he had only to pause and say: “Oh yes…that’s right. How could I have forgotten?”

He wouldn’t dare disturb the surface of their friendship with any sort of revelation. If this was all it stood to be, he’d gladly take that love and put it on a shelf like the rare, delicate thing it was—only to be looked it, never touched for fear it would shatter into a million pieces.

Returning to the world that had nearly devoured Dean seemed primed to bring that precious thing to ruin. So it was that, though Seamus did write in response to Luna’s invitation, he did so with immense weight around his wrist. Could Dean survive a return to a world that had taken so much from him since before he’d even been born?

Luna’s reply came on the 30th of April—only a day after Seamus had sent his answer. He’d secretly hoped that the bird would get lost, or at worst, sucked into the turbine of an aeroplane. But no. On yet another sweltering day, the same tawny tapped expectantly on the same window with the same air of superiority.

“She couldn’t have been more discreet?” Seamus grumbled. “That bloke downstairs probably has all the bird-watchers in London on the line by now.”

“Discretion isn’t Luna’s way,” said Dean as he opened the scroll of parchment. He pushed his half-eaten toast at the owl, and scanned the message. The day between had given him time to recover from their last night out. His eyes were no longer puffy, and he’d had a shave since.

“Right,” he said. “It’s starting at ten o’clock tomorrow night.”

“Where’s the place?”

“Upon the heath.”

Seamus smirked. “Come off it, mate. I know you’re a nutter for Shakespeare, but—

“No, really.” Dean brandished Luna’s letter. “It’s at this place called Pennwick Heath. Outside the village of Tiddleton-under-Lovey.”

Seamus snorted into his cup of coffee; even Dean grinned a little. “And how exactly are we supposed to get to this Piddleton-under-Lovey?”

“_Tiddleton_, Shea.” Dean reached for a book of road maps, and scanned it for a moment. “There,” he said, pointing at a spot near the divide between England and Scotland. “Blimey, it’s only a hop and a skip from Carlisle.”

“We could get there by train,” said Seamus tentatively. This was really happening, and he wasn’t sure he was all that chuffed.

“Do we have the dosh left for that, though? Two tickets, mate.”

Seamus took a breath. “Two tickets one way.” He looked at his feet, hating that he felt so disappointed in himself.

Dean rose, and put a hand over Seamus’s shoulder.

“Shea,” he said softly, “if you don’t want to go back—

“It’s not me,” said Seamus, trying very hard not to think about Dean’s hand on his skin. “Are you ready? If you’re not, there’s still Dublin.”

Dean smiled. “I’m sure. Really.” He looked around the flat, and something—a secret sadness—crossed his face. He removed his hand from Seamus’s shoulder, and strode to the open window. “I can’t keep running forever. Besides, I miss not having an easy-out for the common hangover." 

Seamus knew him well enough to detect the insincerity. He wouldn’t allow it. “If you don’t want to, just say so.” He hated how his own voice rose, yet it couldn’t be helped. They hadn’t argued during their journey until they’d gone to Sofia, and even that had been over a trifle. Seamus didn’t want their adventure to end in acrimony, but he’d rather Dean didn’t continue to torture himself needlessly. 

He expected Dean to rise—to bite back the way he would in the past. But Dean only smiled in a way that made Seamus think of a pantomime. 

“I want to. It’s just…” 

“Just what?”

Dean shook his head. “It’s just going to be a bit of a change, is all. I’ve had fun this year, and having to go back to the real world…it’s like a vacation ending.” 

Seamus glared. He knew Dean wasn’t being entirely forthcoming; and what was more, Dean knew it too. He’d had that maddening habit all the last year, and Seamus had only seen fit to call him on it once. They’d been in Germany, and had, quite by accident, come across a trace of the wizarding world during a day in Freiburg: a boulder with a crudely etched Dark Mark carved on it.

They’d been walking along, quite merrily, and when Dean had seen the sigil, a cloud so dense had fallen over him that he seemed a different person. He’d stared at the mark—a reminder of what he’d suffered—and then seized every stone and pebble within range and flung them at the boulder. That failing, he’d pummeled it with his fists until Seamus had pulled him away, his hands bloody.

Afterwards, Dean had smoothed it over as a fit—it had been a long day, and he’d been cold and tired. More lies, both to Seamus and to himself. All Seamus had said in irritated reply was “That would hurt me if I didn’t know the truth.”

But this? This was more grievous in that their future rested on it. And though Seamus’s gut was roaring at him to raise hell, the tolerant part won out.

He couldn’t disturb the peace. He didn’t want Dean to escape to the bottle again.

Dean sent the owl away a moment later. Watching it as it soared over the rooftops of London, he said, “I’ve got it: let’s make tomorrow on last hurrah for the half-bloods.”

“What?”

“We’ll trek around here—take in some food or maybe watch a game down the pub. Then we’ll catch the train to Tiddleton-under-Lovey. It can’t take more than a few hours to get there.”

Seamus nodded. “Sounds like a plan to me. But how are we going to get to Pennwick Heath from Tiddle-whatsit?”

“Easy. We’ll walk. It can’t be that hard.”

Seamus hesitated a moment. “And our wands?

Dean shrugged. “Let’s wait until after the celebrations, yeah? Then we’ll just Apparate home.”

_Apparate home_, Seamus thought morosely. _Why would I do that when home is right here?_

* * *

The best thing that could be said about their final day in London was that they spent it together. Otherwise it was uncomfortably hot, with baking streets and sweaty Londoners doing their best to seek shade. Mostly, they tried to keep indoors, browsing shops and visiting a few of the grander libraries.

Dean seemed to vibrate with a sort of nervous energy, as pulsing as the flowers and trees outside. He kept close to Seamus, looked at him attentively every time they spoke. It was as if he were trying to memorize every last detail of this day—their last day free of the wizarding world—for fear that he would lose it forever.

They found their way into a pub a little after one o’clock, and watched a West Ham game from the safety of a booth. When Dean didn’t order any of what was on tap, Seamus knew that something was amiss.

“It’s local, Shea,” said Dean with a stab at a boisterous laugh. “We can get English ale any time we want at places far better than this one.”

The waitress, who’d been eyeing them both with some interest, looked as if Dean had offended her entire family. She set their food down with a pronounced “hmph” and stalked back to the bar. Seamus almost wanted to tell her that she hadn’t stood much of a chance, anyway. Though he and Dean had frequented nightclubs all across the continent, neither had taken a girl to bed. Seamus hadn’t cared a lick, and though Dean encouraged their attentions, he never let it go beyond the realm of the dance floor.

In spite of the change drawing ever nearer, Seamus forced himself to enjoy these last few hours in the muggle world. Yet Dean, all alert eyes and volubility during the day, seemed to withdraw the closer four o’clock got. By the time they were getting their tickets validated at the train station, Seamus would have stood a better chance at getting a response out of a rhododendron. He itched to tell Dean that they could still turn around. Even once they arrived in Tiddleton-under-Lovey, all Dean would have to do was say the word, and they could stay wandering the land of the muggles as long as Dean wanted.

But he couldn’t bear to see that false resolve in Dean’s eyes once more, or hear the glibness that meant as much as mold.

They had a compartment to themselves. The train was as disparate from the Hogwarts Express as it was possible to be: modern, sleek and monochromatic. They’d been in enough trains in the last year for Seamus to feel himself a competent judge of the mode of transport as a whole, and this was certainly in the top ten.

But their journey was far more significant in that they were leaving the world that had sheltered them—replenished them—for all of that year. Seamus had almost forgotten about magic entirely—how it felt to hold a wand, to know that you could simply banish mundanity with a simple wave and a few chosen words.

He’d always thought of himself as a sort of oddball in Hogwarts. He wasn’t a complete ball of nerves, like Neville, or a font of knowledge like Hermione; he wasn’t hardscrabble like Ron, and he certainly wasn’t Harry Potter. He had none of Parvati’s grace, or Dean’s dauntlessness. He didn’t possess any of Luna’s sense of self or pluckiness…he’d always just been plain-as-toast Seamus Finnigan. And yet, when he examined the idea of his place in the scope of things, he’d found he hadn’t given much of a damn to not have anything that set him apart from the pack. He hadn’t needed to be all these things to know his worth as a wizard.

Perhaps that was why he’d found it so easy to leave last year. Then again, Dean had been just as willing to take a step back, and Seamus wasn’t so sure he’d have gone on this sabbatical if he hadn’t had Dean with him. 

The train slid from the station smoother than butter on a hot skillet. In a matter of moments, it seemed as if London had been swallowed by countryside. The sun was already setting on the horizon; long shadows reached for the train tracks, standing sentinel as the locomotive departed.

“Remember how much the train would rattle on the way to Hogwarts?” said Seamus.

Dean only grunted in response. His gaze was fixed on the green fields and distant dairy cows passing outside the window. His forehead was creased in concentration, and Seamus rather dreaded the possibility of Dean leaping out the window.

But he simply sat, and thought, leaving a silence so painful between them that it nearly polluted the air in the compartment. He stared at Seamus several times, as if trying to read something in his face; but he never said a word.

Night blanketed the land—a clear May Day evening with stars beaming in an inky sky devoid of clouds. The moon hung high overhead, silver and full as plump fruit. The rush of air and the hum of the train cocooned Seamus in an ambient sound like a lullaby. His eyes began to droop. He leaned his head against the window, slats of pale moonlight dancing through the shadows cast on the glass.

Maybe if he fell asleep through this, Dean would quietly pay for their way back to London. It would be for the best, given how Dean was too proud to say he didn’t want to go on in the first place. And yet, Seamus couldn’t help but feel a trifle disappointed at the possibility…

“Shea.”

It had been so long since Dean had said anything that Seamus almost wasn’t sure he’d spoken. Rubbing his drowsiness away, he looked across the seat at Dean.

He was sitting forward, the better for the light from outside to shine on his face. He looked a landscape of emotions—apprehensive, resigned yet eager—like a child waiting for the start of a long-awaited celebration.

“What’s on your mind, mate?” _Please just be honest this time…tell me you want to go back_…

Dean exhaled, rubbing his hands over his thighs. “I was just thinking if…if you…” He swallowed. “If you wanted to get a place together after this is over.”

Seamus blinked. “Er…yeah. That would be great. I kind of figured we’d end up together. _Doing that_ together.”

“Good. That’s good to hear.” He sounded as if he’d changed the subject halfway through. He sat back a moment. “How much longer do you reckon it’ll take?”

“Dunno…about an hour, if that?” _Get to the sodding point, Thomas!_

Dean rubbed a hand over his face. Once more he exhaled as if releasing the pressures of a volcano. Once more, he looked out the window, where unfathomable answers seemed to lay.

“I can’t believe it’s over.” Dean said. “Feels like only yesterday we were on the plane to Portugal.”

“Yeah.” If Dean wasn’t going to be forthright, neither would Seamus. He’d gone this long keeping his peace—what were a few more hours, or the rest of their lives?

“Remember Santorini?”

“Yeah.” They’d partied harder than anywhere else, and nearly gone home with two Canadian tourists.

“Those girls.” Dean smiled and shook his head. “Those girls…”

“Yeah…” If Seamus didn’t respond with more than a syllable soon, he’d go stark raving mad.

A cool, feminine voice filled the compartment from the intercom. “Next stop: Carlisle Station. Connecting trains to Kingsmoor and Mossband. Final destination: Lockerbie Station.”

“I needed you,” said Dean with sudden force, and Seamus went still as a hemlock stem where he sat. “This last year has been exactly what I needed, and it wouldn’t have been the same without you.” He took another breath. “_I _wouldn’t be the same without you.”

Seamus allowed himself a small smile. “Thanks mate. You’re my best friend. I’d be a mess without—

“No.” Dean shook his head distractedly. “You’d be fine. You’re a stronger man than I am.”

Seamus stared. How thick could one bloke be? “If you think after everything you went through, you’re not strong, then you need to pull your head out of your backside.”

“You wouldn’t run away from it, though.” Dean smiled sadly. “You’d stare it down. Me, I’m amazed my liver still works after all this time.”

“Well, good on you. I’m not dancing a jig and a caper over here after living under Snape’s regime, but you? You went through Hell, Dean, and you came out the other side all right.

Dean only shook his head, and Seamus was alarmed to see a brightness in his eyes.

“Don’t think me any better than I am,” he said. “I wasn’t bravely facing any of that down. I was really lost without you…wandering in a desert with no end, and I just kept wanting to die…but I knew I had to go on because I had to get back to you again…”

The most extraordinary sensation was coursing through Seamus’s body. He felt as if a million droplets of sunlight were flurrying through him, only the heat did not scorch or overwhelm. He felt giddy, like a little boy about to jump from a high rock into a deep tide pool.

Dean’s voice was choked, and Seamus wanted nothing more than to close the space between them. But this was one of those rare times when his gut and his head were in splendid synchronicity.

“This last year,” Dean said, “has been…” His voice trailed away, as if words were insufficient when applied to how he felt. He smiled at Seamus. “I have to tell you this, even if I bungle the last eight years up completely, I need to tell you that—

“I love you too, Dean.” The words came before Seamus could stop them—before he even knew if they had anything to do with what Dean meant to say.

One look at Dean’s stricken face, and Seamus decided that if he was wrong—which he didn’t think he was—he no longer cared. He got to his feet, and stepped towards Dean.

The train car lurched suddenly. The wheels had connected with a rock on the track. Thrown off balance, Seamus toppled forwards into Dean’s lap. Dean caught him by both arms. Air couldn’t pass between them. Even as the train continued to move, everything seemed to stand still.

Then Dean tugged Seamus forward.

They kissed as if their lips had been made for it—made for each other.

Finally, when breath became necessary for survival, they pulled apart. Seamus waited for some kind of recrimination, but none came.

Dean grinned, then pulled Seamus onto the seat with him.

They didn’t talk much during the remainder of the journey.

They didn’t need to.

* * *

Pennwick Heath stretched almost endlessly towards the night sky. Only the shadows of the distant Lovey Peak (presiding over the cozy village of Tiddleton like an aged sentry) prevented Seamus from believing the sky to have devoured the land. They’d been walking for some fifteen minutes, and thus far had only encountered bracken and rocks. 

He’d have been worried, or at most, afraid, of it hadn’t been for Dean’s hand in his.

“Now I think about it,” Dean said, looking around the wild stretch of land, “this might have been a bit ill-advised.”

“Well, we’re not lost,” Seamus replied, brushing his thumb over the back of Dean’s knuckles. “There’s only one Tiddleton-under-Lovey—at least there is if there’s any justice in the world—and we passed it ten minutes ago.”

Dean looked around. “We should have got our wands first.”

“Or maybe clarified things with Luna.”

Dean sighed. “This could be a joke, of course. It would be just like Luna to lead us on a wild goose chase.”

“Would it?” said a dreamy voice from out of the darkness.

Both Seamus and Dean yelped and whirled around. There, indeed, stood Luna Lovegood, hair blonde as fresh honey and eyes wide as the moon above. She looked almost normal, for her, with the exception that one half of her face, her right arm, and her right leg were all blue—dyed, as Seamus realized with an inward laugh, with wode.

“I don’t think it’s like me at all, unless it was an Andalusian goose. Their feathers can cure men of erectile dysfunction when brewed into a tea, but I doubt either of you needs that.”

“Hello, Luna.” Dean laughed, and slipped and from Seamus’s hand to hug her.

“Hello Dean. Hello Seamus.” She beamed at him. “Were your hands cold? It’s a very warm night, but I suppose if you walked here from the village…”

Dean took Seamus’s hand again, and held it up almost defiantly. “Not cold. Just got with the program at long last.”

Luna’s eyes went—if possible—even wider. “Oh, I say,” she breathed, “that is a rather engaging image, isn’t it?” She turned and called into the empty heath behind them, “Did you hear that, Ginny? You owe me five galleons!” And she stepped forward and disappeared.

Glancing at each other, Seamus and Dean followed. They’d gone five paces when everything around them exploded with sound, light, heat and people. They were still on Pennwick Heath, yes, but it was evident that this part had been hidden by magic.

Several towering bonfires burned around them, their flames high and bright in the darkness. Lively music, almost pagan in sound, echoed from somewhere Seamus could not see. A good fifty people were gathered around, some dancing before the flames, others sharing bottles of drink, and still others simply talking and laughing like they’d been friends forever.

Looking around, Seamus realized that he recognized nearly everyone here: the Patil twins were watching in mingled amazement and disgust as Lavender Brown consumed a raw steak; Ernie MacMillan, Terry Boot and Anthony Goldstein were all stripped down to their shorts; Terry and Anthony were painted with the same wode as Luna, and both cavorting around the flames with Ernie like Picts. A tall girl Seamus recognized as Daphne Greengrass was using her wand to make a strand of fire dance around her while Zacharias Smith and Hannah Abbott watched in fascination. Oliver Wood was guffawing loudly at something Alicia Spinnett was saying to Angelina Johnson, who looked as if she hadn’t smiled in months.

It seemed as if every Hogwarts student who’d participated in the Battle was here—not in a state of mourning over all that had been lost, but celebrating all that had been saved.

“What’s this I hear?” Ginny Weasley, wearing an old Gryffindor banner around her shoulders, marched towards Dean and Seamus. “Is my ex-boyfriend now the boyfriend of his best friend?”

Luna trailed behind her, followed by Harry Potter—whose bare chest was emblazoned with a painted, animated lion of Gryffinodr that roared at the moon above. Hermione Granger, the most cut loose that Seamus had ever seen her, was holding hands with Ron Weasley, who had a crown of oak leaves around his head. Neville Longbottom, likewise stripped to his shorts, looked to have been painted over with the same magical ink that covered Harry’s chest. Weird runes danced around his arms, legs and chest, and, most astonishing of all, he had a crown of antlers growing from his forehead as if he’d been trapped halfway in a Transfiguration spell.

In response to Luna’s question, Dean said, “I’m afraid it’s true, Ginny. I hope you’ve got those five galleons on you.”

Ginny grinned. “I might…if I had any proof.”

Seamus knew she was only trying to goad them into making it public, and he was more than happy to oblige. Rolling his eyes, he took Dean’s face in his and kissed him. Only one among the cluster—Hermione, Seamus guessed from the tone—gasped. Everyone else cheered as if Seamus had caught a Golden Snitch.

“There,” Seamus said after he and Dean broke apart. “Is that proof enough?”

“I’ll say it is,” Ron laughed. “Well done, lads! I should have gone in on that bet.”

“It’s unbecoming of an auror to gamble, mate,” said Harry. Merlin, but he looked different, although that was likely due to the beard covering his jaw.

Harry gestured at the festivities. “Go to. We’ve got the place warded until after dawn, so there’s no need to be puritanical.”

“I can see that.” Seamus eyed Neville, who only grinned in a drunken sort of way. None of the parties they’d gone to during their European adventure could hold a candle to this.

“Shouldn’t some of these people be in school?” Dean asked.

“As if you’ve ever been a stickler for the rules,” said Neville with a chuckle. He gestured at Hermione. “We fixed it with McGonagall. There’s perks to being Head Boy and Girl.”

“Brilliant,” said Dean.

“That’s nothing,” said Ron, clapping his hands together. “Wait til the bonfires burn to the centre. It’ll make that time in Fifth Year look like birthday candles.”

Seamus looked to the flames—at the revelry—and felt more at home than ever. “What do you think?” he said to Dean. “Should we ‘go to’ as they said?”

“Only if you want to.”

Seamus squeezed his hand. “I do.”

“Then let’s go.”

And, together, they surrendered to the pull of celebration—walking back into the world they’d tried so hard to leave behind.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this last part of the series! Drop a kudo, comment or bookmark if the mood strikes you.


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